


34. “Are you testing me?”

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Warning: the hurt/comfort ratio is along the lines of a hurt steak and a sprig of comfort parsley.“Why drugs, when you were dating Janine?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 9
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

“Maybe. Yes,” John replied. “Are you playing along?”

“Since you insist, despite my repeated warnings that this conversation will do no one any good.”

“I have to know.”

“Famous last words,” Sherlock quipped, miming unconcern.

“Why drugs, when you were dating Janine?”

The question - _John_ \- surprised him, and to buy himself a few seconds, Sherlock corrected the query.

“ _Pretending_ to date.”

“I asked for honest answers, not misdirection.”

“You know why,” Sherlock snapped, already finding this tedious.

“No, I don’t.”

“What?” he demanded incredulously. He had in fact explained, and wonder of wonders, it had been the truth; he’d needed a vulnerability tempting enough for Magnussen’s vile appetite. It was illogically but undeniably offensive that John disbelieved him now, on a point in which he’d actually been truthful. What a waste of an honest moment!

“Yeah, ‘no, I don’t!’ Even I can think of a better option than _cocaine_ , Sherlock, and I’m not a bloody genius!” John shouted, though he immediately mastered himself and resumed in the same controlled Captain tone that most of the conversation had been conducted in.

“Depression, psychiatric help, sugar pills dressed up as anti-depressants,” John continued. “That would have been a big enough secret for Magnussen, unfortunately, given how shitty people are about mental illness. And the meds would have given you a perfect excuse for lack of libido, since Janine didn’t fall into ‘your area’ or whatever. So you gave me an excuse, not the reason. So tell me why you chose drugs.”

“Once an addict, John,” Sherlock said bitterly, but the other man just shook his head.

“You’ve been clean for years and had a case on. The temptation shouldn’t have been strong enough then to tip you over. Tell me why.”

“What does it matter, now? Why do you care?!”

“Stop deflecting. Tell me why.”

Sherlock tried getting John angry when he wouldn’t be derailed. That was easy enough. But John was even more stubborn than he was hot-tempered, and he dragged himself back to even keel with a bull-headedness that would have been enchanting under other circumstances. In the end Sherlock only frustrated himself, and John stayed doggedly determined.

…and over and over again, demanded to be told _why_ , wearing Sherlock down with the unique combination of love and antagonism that only he could bring to bear on the consulting detective.

“I was sad!” Sherlock finally spat, finding the childishly simple phrase better suited for how he’d felt (still felt) than any overwrought declarations. Besides, he hardly cared about style and diction; he just wanted the conversation - interrogation - to be over. He was torn between hoping it would be enough, and aching for an excuse to do the emotional equivalent of vomiting all over John and then telling _him_ to clean it up.

“All the more reason to’ve chosen the depression ploy,” John shot back. “There’s not a person on this earth who wouldn’t benefit from some counseling, and you’ve been through more than most!”

“Suddenly a supporter of psychiatric treatment, are you?” Sherlock sneered.

_Sacrificed everything and treated like a selfish brat, endured so much and only got more pain as my reward. Yes, I suppose I have been through quite a bit._

“Tell me why!”

_I was sad, I was hurt, I was lonely, John, did you know that I could feel lonely?_

“I wanted to forget!” he finally shouted, eyes screwed shut as if he couldn’t bear to look at himself as the ugly, rotten, festering truth came boiling up and out of him.

_Just for a few hours, even for a few blessed minutes…_

“Forget _what_?”

_That I’d ever met you_ , was what he meant to say. Hurtful, honest words to be twisted into a weapon. Meeting John had been the most wonderful thing, but it had opened his chest up and allowed sentiment in, and there had been days when he would’ve clawed it all out of himself with his bare hands if he could have.

“That I’d ever lost you!” was what he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Well, and that was true, too.

_I gave up everything for you, everything that I **was** , from the moment we met. Twenty-ninth of January, the most important day of my life, you stepped into the room and I deliberately dragged another person into my world for the first time since…since… **ever!** I told you I was married to my work at Angelo’s, and you didn’t understand that I was already cheating on it with you! I brought you along on my cases, told you that you were indispensable to my thought process, memorialized you in my mind palace, let you rewrite my work history in your own words. How could you not **see?!**_

_I was married, and you were the lover I brought home the day after we met, and forced my spouse to woo._

It wasn’t cleansing at all, to finally admit this long-suppressed pain. Like debriding a wound, only to have the infection spread out, the fever climb higher, the pain dig deeper. His eyes squeezed so tight it created new flares of pain in his head, and he dug his fingernails into his palms as if it could relieve some of the pressure building up elsewhere.

_And it was fine, it was all just fine, only I had to give up even more. I had to give up **you** , and it was the hardest choice I ever made, the worst rehabilitation I ever endured. But I had to, because any other choice meant watching you get shot. So I saved you and you **hated** me for it, and if I could’ve I would’ve hated you right back for **that**!_

Bile-bitter blackness and seething red swirled together behind his eyelids, and Sherlock felt lightheaded, almost. Dizzy. Breathless.

Panic attack. Lovely.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop for him (rude); they poured out, trickle turned flood, breaking through the crack in his defenses and bringing them all crumbling down.

_But you got me, John, **oh** how you avenged yourself on me even though you never knew it. You made me plan your wedding, put me in charge of making sure the most important day of **your** life was perfect, made me think of it every minute of every hour of every day and as if that wasn’t torment enough, you ensured I had a front row seat, had to smile and perform and **give you away** in front of everyone we knew._

He heard his name, muffled and indistinct, as if from a distance. But it was in John’s voice, and Sherlock struggled to listen past the screaming in his ~~heart~~ head.

Oh.

The screaming was quite literal. And coming from his own throat, no less. No wonder he was lightheaded; it seemed that he’d been shouting and crying instead of having his breakdown quietly, and now John was holding him and calling his name, begging him to calm down and _breathe_.

~~Embarrassing~~. ~~Boring~~. ~~Human~~. ~~Dull~~. ~~Horrifying~~. ~~Overdue~~.

Unbearable.

Sherlock reared back and struck out, shaking John off as best he could and stumbling away, chest heaving as he gasped and coughed. His chair provided support, then the mantelpiece, some errant bits of post fluttering in his wake as he fled to his room.

John chased him down the hall, was thwarted by his own ingrained politeness when confronted with a slammed-shut door, and then scratched hesitantly at the wood like a needy pup.

Sherlock collapsed two feet away from his bed and wept.


	2. Chapter 2

He cried himself sick and then fell asleep right there on the floor, all sweaty and snotty and sticky-eyed. And when he woke up sometime later, it was night, and John was making a valiant effort to comfortingly cuddle him from behind despite their height difference making him the less-than-ideal candidate for big spoon.

Sherlock believed the colloquial term was “jet-packing”.

Exhausted to the point of numbness, Sherlock simply sighed, and after a listless rub at his crusty face, began the painful process of unfolding himself from the floor. Not too old to chase forgers down a dark alley; not young enough to nap on the floor without consequences. John snuffled into the space between his scapulae and then jerked awake, arms tightening briefly and then letting go.

“Sherlock?”

“Toothpaste,” he replied, and did a rather good impression of a toddler learning to walk on his way to the bathroom. Which he hadn’t shut or locked. Which explained John’s presence. Excellent deduction, Holmes. Well done indeed.

His head hurt.

Feeling beaten down and weary, Sherlock exerted what strength he could find and managed to brush his teeth, wash his face, and blow his nose. When he surfaced from his messy handful of loo roll, John was there, a pale presence in the dimness of the doorway, with peace offerings of paracetamol and a cup of water. He looked damp and pink-cheeked himself, with stray drops of water still clinging to his fringe. A little breathless too, adding to the air of hurry. A hasty wash in the kitchen and a dash around the flat to ensure that he was ready and waiting–

Sherlock dropped his eyes as he reached out for the cup, closing them entirely as he tipped back the pills and water. Shutting off the data stream, so to speak.

_Tired, tired, so tired of seeing too much yet never knowing enough. Being told off for observing everything around him and then accused of being willfully blind when he’d shut his eyes on request._

He drained the cup, parched from his earlier excesses of emotion. Setting it carelessly in the sink to roll or break as it would - no comment from John, not even a huff - Sherlock slipped past him and back into his room, falling into bed without bothering to turn on the lamp or turn back the coverlet. The water had refreshed him, but he still felt…puffy, and in need of cooling off. He rolled once to get his legs further away from the edge and curled slightly, feeling sore in about five different ways and wanting to protect his metaphorical underbelly.

John was a hesitant presence beside the bed for almost two endless minutes, and then he sat on the bed. At the unbroken silence from Sherlock, John then laid down and slowly but determinedly shuffled and shifted his way into jet-pack position once more. When Sherlock didn’t elbow him in the gut or slam the heel of one hand into his nose or chin, he took one further liberty and settled his nose against Sherlock’s C6.

“’m sorry,” John murmured, then cleared his throat and repeated himself. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Sherlock asked, and made it clear with his tone that this was more a question of wanting confirmation that John understood the crimes of which he was accused, rather than that Sherlock felt that there was nothing that needed apologizing for. The fiery resentment of before had spent itself, but there were still some bitter dregs.

“For always being selfish. And a coward.”

But also constantly surprising.

Sherlock frowned. Of all the things he could have accused John of at that moment, in this mood, cowardice had not been on the list. He didn’t feel up to an Afghanistan joke or soothing rebuttal, however, and soon enough John spoke again.

“I hate it; it’s just stupid and never gets me anywhere good. No one calls me on it so I tell myself I’m being noble or brave or whatever bollocks comes to mind but truth is I’m just afraid.”

“D'you know why I’m here? Baker Street, I mean, not…” _Pressed up against his (former?) best friend from nose to toes._ “I wanted to be here. Always do. But I was too afraid of what you might see and say or think. But turns out I’m also afraid of my wife. She said she was sick of this…this greyness or nothingness or whatever she called it. I wasn’t really listening anymore toward the end. I think she meant that I had to…to…”

A sharp sigh that was almost a sob sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. John rolled his forehead against the back of his friend’s neck; a sad little shake of the head.

“I need to either get over you, or just go and _get_ you. I think she’s hoping for the former, so that she and I can move on, but no matter how this ends, I can’t go back to her. She’s right. I put her second, always, even before, and the worst part of it is I don’t treat you any better.”

Sherlock tried turning, astonishment (disbelief, hope, despair, confusion, frustration) overriding the fog of exhaustion, but John held on tighter, burrowed deeper into the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

“Too afraid you’d knock me back to ask a second time if you’d be interested. Not wanting to lose you as a friend, too attached to the flat and the cases, no idea of where I’d go or what I’d do if you chucked me. Stewing in my own anger and pain because it’s easier than trying to understand someone else’s. I’m a grown fucking man and I never once acted like it.”

He sounded on the verge of tears or an anguished scream. Sherlock was still fairly well pinned, but he latched on to John’s forearms in what he hoped was an encouraging, supportive manner. His own breath was fast and fluttery, and his heart was drumming against his ribs, asking to be let out.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then shut it again, perplexed. So many things John had said; how to prioritize just one to respond to first? Interested. Attached. Angry. In pain.

Mary, letting him go and hoping he’d come back to her. John, declaring he’d not go back, no matter what.

The fact that John was in his bed, holding on to him like he was a bit of flotsam in the middle of a dark and hungry sea.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“What…what now?”

He felt John shrug, but then shake his head as if to negate it.

“Do what needs doing. Remind myself that good’s better than right sometimes, and right’s better than lawful.”

Sherlock huffed in amusement at this, despite the somber atmosphere.

“Lestrade might argue that one.”

“Don’t care. I need to be able to face myself in the mornings.”

“And what…’needs doing’?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep neutral. Trying not to sound hopeful, greedy, wanting, impatient. Trying to be good.

A long, hitch-hiccuping breath in and sigh out against his nape sent a cascade of shivers up and down every inch of him.

“Get a divorce,” John murmured, slowly rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s skin. The words trickled out, each sentence unbroken but punctuated with steadying breaths and clenched teeth. There was decision and determination and bravery in each declaration, and Sherlock was astonished to find that he could be even more proud of and in love with John than before.

Hope was a wonderful panacea for hurts.

“Sort out custody,” John continued. “Ask you if you’ll have me back. Beg if I need to. Apologize either way. Try and prove every day that I’m worthy of being your flatmate and friend and blogger. Never hurt you again. Go back to therapy to make sure of it. And when I’ve got my arms ‘round all that, ask you, um, if you’ve got a boyfriend. And if you don’t…ask if I could apply.”


End file.
